


Grateful

by abcdefuk_off



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 15x06, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Golden Time - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Thanksgiving, s15, slight tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:42:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21594010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abcdefuk_off/pseuds/abcdefuk_off
Summary: It's been a rough year - hell, it's been a rough life, but the Winchester brothers still manage to find reasons to be thankful. S15 tag.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 3
Kudos: 75





	Grateful

Note: Has minor connections to my other fic entitled _Thanksgiving_ but can still very much be enjoyed all by its lonesome! Happy Thanksgiving!

* * *

Dean always checked on Sam before going to bed.

He always had.

He always would.

Even if the kid was still wide awake bent over a book, Dean would check in on him before he crashed. Sometimes he would call out a 'goodnight', but most nights he would track his little brother down before heading to bed, and if Sam was busy, he would let him be. Dean was satisfied as long as Sam was safe - that didn't keep him from wanting to send the boy off to bed, but as they aged he was often forced to resist such parental urges.

The times when Sam was in bed before Dean – seldom as that would be as of late – he still made sure to check in on his kid before going off to sleep.

Tonight – or rather too early this morning - was no different.

Dean sipped at the glass of whiskey in his hand as he wandered down the dim corridor. He hadn't been able to sleep and had been up most the night detailing the Impala – his baby was overdue for some maintenance - before realizing it was nearly five in the morning and deciding to try a whiskey lullaby to tire him out. Hopefully it would work.

He had already checked the kitchen and the library, so best bet was that Sam had actually gone to bed without being prompted or pressured to do so (for once). The door to the youngest Winchester's bedroom was partially open, as it always was, something both the brothers did to make the transition from always sharing a space to having their own, a little more seamless. Dean reached out and gently nudged the wooden door a little further open, taking another sip of whiskey as he leaned forward and squinted into the darkness, waiting for some of the minimal light from the hallway to filter into the bedroom.

Sam was curled up on his side on the mattress, resting safe and sound. Dean nodded, now feeling settled enough to head to bed himself. He twitched a smile as he noticed Sam's foot sticking out from beneath the mussed blanket – some things never changed - and took a few quiet steps forward, reaching out and gently pulling the blanket over the exposed skin. The bunker stayed at mostly the same temperature all the time but it was located underground and it was nearly December, so there was a definite chill in the air and Sam's feet were always fucking icicles – had been since he back when he was just a little twig of a thing. Dean made to turn around, but stalled as a muted sound came from the head of the bed. He frowned as he watched the long legs kick beneath the sheets before the slender frame curled up even tighter.

Sam had always been a restless sleeper, Dean couldn't count the amount of times as a kid he had woken with a pointy elbow digging into his ribs or ice-cold feet kicking at his shins; no, his little brother moving about in his sleep was hardly a cause for alarm. But the way the younger man was grinding his face into his pillow – as though attempting hide from a predator, and the small wounded noises Dean could hear coming from the sleeping form, that was more than mere restlessness.

Sam had been plagued with too many nightmares - or visions or God-dreams or whatever the fuck they were – lately and Dean wasn't about to let the kid suffer through another one.

He moved around the end of the bed, reaching out and gently placing his hand on his brother's shoulder.

"Sam." He called out, stooping closer as he began rubbing the narrow back.

The younger man's only response was a choked sob, a desperate broken sound that shot straight through Dean's soul.

"Sammy!" He spoke, keeping his voice low and non-threatening but adding the necessary volume he needed to wake the distressed lad.

Those big hazel eyes shot open, as Sam launched himself up in bed, his gaze ravaging the room before landing on his big brother.

"Dean." He rasped, reaching out and latching his long fingers around Dean's left forearm, relief clear both in his voice and on his expression.

"Yeah, buddy. It's just me."

Sam nodded, seeming to be aware of that fact, but still holding tight to the older boy. Dean watched as his brother sucked in unsteady breaths, his entire body trembling, including the hand that he had wrapped around Dean's arm. The elder hunter straightened from his stoop, the limited movement causing Sam's grip to tighten and wide eyes to stare up at him. Dean received the silent message loud and clear, and plopped himself down on the mattress near the boney set of knees. Sam seemed to settle a bit in response, taking a minute to level-out his breathing before he released his hold on his big brother.

"So which one of us died this time?" Dean inquired pragmatically, eyebrows raised – now that he knew what kind of shit terrorized the kid's sleep he had no need to beat around the bush or go fishing for answers.

Sam blew out a long sigh, running a hand through his hair as he sat up a little straighter, no longer curled in on himself like he had been. "You." He muttered, pressing his lips into a firm line and shifting his right leg over until it was touching Dean. The older hunter reached down and casually held onto Sam's shin through the blanket, able to tell that his brother was currently in need of some tactile reassurance.

"Candle stick in the library? Or was it a wrench in the kitchen?" Dean mused with a smirk.

Sam shook his head, pulling his knees up towards his chest, careful not to dislodge Dean's grip as he did so. That shaggy brown hair fell down in front of Sam's face, the younger man hiding behind it.

"Hey, talk to me." Dean prompted, shifting closer, his hand idly rubbing up and down Sam's shin as he ducked down to find those familiar hazel eyes. Sam's eyes had always been so fucking expressive, which could be both a blessing and a curse. They could warm Dean's soul one day and break his heart the next. They were what made it so damn difficult to face his brother whenever Dean fucked up, or when he was about to fuck up. They were also what made it bloody impossible for him to throw in the towel, even on days when that was all he wanted to do.

Those eyes were also Dean's map to figuring out what was going on with his kid brother at any given moment; and when he caught a glimpse of them, he could see Sam's pain so clearly.

"C'mon kiddo, what happened, huh? How'd you take me out?" Dean encouraged with a teasing smirk, the question originally being one of vague curiosity now morphing into something he needed to know, due to Sam's obvious distress.

"By being born." Sam huffed, rubbing a hand wearily over his face.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Dean snapped, any amusement having vanished at the quiet confession.

"Nothing. It's nothing." Sam dismissed, his lips twisting into a lame attempt at a smile. No way was Dean falling for that shit.

"It's not nothing. What the fuck happened?"

"It was just a dream, okay? It wasn't a vision or anything."

"What was it about?"

"It doesn't matter!"

"Yeah, Sam, it obviously does."

"Just let it go, Dean." The younger man grumbled, as he climbed off the mattress.

"Tell me and I will." Dean bargained, standing from the bed.

"No." Sam denied flatly, before marching from the room.

"Oh yeah, that's mature!" Dean called out, narrowing his eyes as Sam flipped him the bird while he stalked down the hall. "Little brat." He muttered, discarding the glass of whiskey he forgot he was holding on Sam's desk as he moved to his dresser to grab a pair of clean socks and then snagged the hoody that was draped over the chair – distractedly recognizing it as one of his own as he walked in the direction his brother stormed off in. Stupid moron stomped off like a frickin child wearing nothing but a t-shirt and sweatpants, the idiot was bound to be cold.

He wasn't surprised to find Sam seated at the table in the library, his head in his hands, the defeated postupre cooling Dean's fiery frustration just a little.

"You done being a bitch?" He asked from where he stood leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed.

Sam snorted an annoyed sound. "You done being a jerk?" He replied.

Dean shrugged. "Depends."

"On what?" Sam sighed.

"If you're ready to tell me what happened in that dream of yours."

Sam shook his head, shivering as he stared down at the fingers he was dragging over the table. As Dean moved closer, he saw that his little brother was tracing the initials they had carved into the wooden surface. Dean softened at the sight and draped the hooded sweatshirt over his brother's shoulders before dropping down in the seat across from him.

Sam twitched a fond smile as he slid into the sweatshirt, turtling into the warm clothing and pulling the sleeves down over his fingers. He pulled in a deep breath, holding it for several seconds before letting it out nice and slow.

"Hellhound. That's what killed you." Sam croaked.

Dean frowned. "I thought we always killed each other."

"I told you it wasn't a vision. Just a nightmare … or a memory – both I guess." Sam whispered; his tone haunted in ways that always had Dean's insides aching.

"You still dream about that?" He asked, his voice low and rough.

"Yeah. Not all the time, but enough. Sometimes I'm standing there watching you get ripped apart by a fucking hellhound, and other times I'm watching Metatron…" Sam faded out, swallowing thickly as he clenched his jaw and his nostrils flared.

Dean pressed his lips into a line as he looked away, the sight of Sam's pain just too much for him to handle sometimes. "I didn't know that you still dreamt about that shit."

Sam looked up from the tabletop he had been focussed so intently on, his expression a mix of too many emotions for Dean to calculate. "Are you serious?"

The older man shrugged, that crap felt like another lifetime ago – like several lifetimes ago, so much had happened since.

"What about you? You don't ever have nightmares about me being dragged off, blood pouring out of my neck? Or me being beaten to death by Nick? Because I happen to know that you have."

"That's different." Dean growled.

"How?" Sam asked incredulously.

"Because that stuff just happened." Dean spat back, those wounds having not yet had the chance to so much as scab over and Sam was already picking at them.

"Oh, so there's an expiry date on that shit now?" Sam nearly shouted.

"That's not what I meant." Dean spelt out through clenched teeth, only to be ignored as his brother continued to express his outrage.

"So you never have any dreams about Stull then, huh?"

Dean glared across the short distance, the sight of his baby brother dropping down through the earth flashing through his mind in high fucking definition.

"How about Jake? You're telling me you don't ever have any dreams about him slamming a blade through my spine?"

Dean flinched, his body and mind repulsed at suck a cavalier mention of one of the most excruciating moments of his life. His jaw was clamped so hard his teeth were aching and his fists clenched so viciously that his nails were biting into his skin. His breath was coming hard and fast as his heart pounded in his chest.

Dean startled slightly as long fingers covered one of the fists he had pressing into the table and gently began to unfold it. Sam had done that when they were children, even back when he was just an ankle-biter, he used to reach out and grab onto Dean's fisted hand, taking the time to uncurl each finger one by one until the tension had drained from the older boy's body. Since he was a kid Dean had clenched his fists when the anxiety or the fear or the frustration became too much, and Sam was always there calming him in the most simplistic way – even when he had just been a child with no idea as to what was wrong.

The age-old method worked just as well as it always had, and Dean could feel a sense of calm come over him.

"I know you dream about that shit, all of it." Sam stated softly as he finished unclenching one of the hunter's hands and moved onto the next. "And so do I. That was my dream tonight. And it sucked – it was brutal, same as it always is. But it was just a memory, just a nightmare."

Dean nodded after a moment, running his methodically uncurled fingers through his short hair.

"I'm going to go make some coffee. You should go get some rest." Sam said, patting Dean on the shoulder as he stood.

The elder Winchester reached out and snagged that narrow wrist in his grip, looking up to meet he curious gaze that stared down at him. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?" He asked.

Sam frowned. "Dude, I just had that nightmare like a nanosecond ago."

Dean shook his head, releasing his grip on Sam now that he didn't have to keep him from moving away. "Not about that. About the visions or whatever the hell they are."

"I didn't know what they were." Sam replied with a shrug as he dropped back down into the chair.

"You thought it was PTSD. You thought you were dealing with leftover _trauma_ , why didn't you tell me?" Dean asked, hating the fact that his brother had been suffering alone.

Sam's shrug was a little more weighted this time around, far less nonchalant. "When aren't we dealing with leftover trauma?" He asked, a sad helpless little smile pulling at his lips.

Dean shook his head once again, dismissing the excuse. "That doesn't mean you don't tell me when you're struggling with shit. I mean, fucking hell, Sam – I'm your big brother, you're supposed to come to me when you've got crap like that messing with your head." Dean proclaimed, the feeling of failure twisting in his gut – he had noticed something was up with Sam and he should have gotten to the bottom of it.

"I know. There was just a lot going on, and I didn't know how to explain it because I didn't really know what was going on. I didn't mean to keep it from you." Sam admitted, sounding genuine enough to reassure Dean that he hadn't been intentionally kept out of the loop.

"Next time you're struggling with something, you tell me. Okay? I don't care if your Stanford-sized vocabulary fails you – you don't have to use the right words or have the answers, you just need to _tell me_. Okay?" Dean wished the request hadn't come out sounding quite as desperate as it did, but if in the end it meant that next time his kid wasn't suffering alone, he didn't give a fuck how pathetic he came off.

"Okay." Sam agreed, his hazel eyes oozing sincerity.

"Good." Dean grunted, nodding his head, the tightness in his chest dissipating. He grabbed the clean socks off the table where he had dropped them and tossed them at his little brother. "Put those on and meet me in the kitchen." He instructed as he stood, ignoring the crack in his knees and making his way out of the room.

"What?" Sam balked.

"You heard me." Dean called over his shoulder, a satisfied grin tugging at his lips at the sheer confusion on his kid brother's face as he fumbled with his socks. Dean's smile widened a moment later when he heard Sam scampering down the hall after him, just like he used to when they were kids and the little dimple-faced boy had practically been Dean's shadow.

His little brother arrived in the kitchen just as Dean pulled the turkey out of the fridge. Sam's eyes grew comically wide as Dean set the hopefully defrosted bird on the counter.

"You do remember what day it is?" Dean asked, unable to withhold his amusement at how equally amazed and perplexed the hunter still looked.

Sam squinted a moment before venturing a guess. "By the size of that bird, I'm going to go with Thanksgiving, it can't be Christmas yet. Right?"

"It's Thanksgiving, Einstein."

"So you bought a turkey." Sam assessed, sounding as though he was still working out the math in his head.

"The biggest one I could find." Dean declared, proudly smacking the uncooked animal, before stooping down to dig cookware big enough to hold the beastie. "You going to help me out, or what?" He asked as he transferred the turkey into the giant casserole dish, glancing up to see that Sam hadn't moved and his mouth was still hanging open.

"Don't you want to sleep? We can make this later." Sam offered, the shock finally fading from his features only to be replaced with concern.

Dean shook his head. "Nope. We are going to have a thanksgiving brunch and then I am going to fall into a turkey coma. It's going to be awesome." Dean declared, a goofy grin pulling at his lips.

Sam rolled his eyes but his smile was nothing but fond as he flicked on the coffee machine before moving to stand next to his brother. "What can I do?" He asked as he cracked his fingers.

Dean was all too happy to take control, instructing his brother what to do, taking the time to teach Sam how to perform certain tasks he was unfamiliar with – as talented as the kid was, his culinary skills had always been lacking.

The two brothers worked as seamlessly together in the kitchen as they did on a hunt, playing off each other's strengths and weaknesses, one always able to easily read the other.

It was a few hours later, most of the holiday dishes having been made and now cooking in the oven, when Sam asked a simple question.

"Why?"

Dean turned from where he was elbow deep in suds, glancing over to where Sam was standing over a burner slowly stirring a pot of gravy.

"You have the first part of that conversation in your head there, college-boy?" Dean responded.

Sam's lips twitched, but his gaze remained steady on his brother. "Why all this?" He specified, nodding towards the half-cleaned mess and the full oven.

Dean scrunched up his face. "Didn't we go over this already? It's Thanksgiving, dude."

"I know, but why celebrate? Why this year?"

Dean shrugged, it wasn't like they hadn't celebrated this particular holiday before, but it also wasn't something that they did every year.

At the genuine confusion on Sam's face, Dean sighed before deciding to offer up some honesty – it was something he had just demanded from the kid a short while ago so he figured it was only fair he lead by example.

"Figured we had some things to be grateful about this year."

"Really? We're at war with God, and we have no fucking idea what's coming next or how to fight it." Sam pointed out, as though Dean had somehow forgotten.

The older boy rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, yeah – I didn't say everything was perfect; if that was the qualifications for celebrating shit, we'd be fucked."

Sam snorted at the comment.

Dean absently dried his sudsy hands on a towel, turning to fully face his little brother as he continued. "But you somehow managed to Houdini Eileen back to life – and if that's not a win than I don't know what is." Dean had been tempted to say that Sam had brought his girlfriend back from the dead, but love had always been a slightly touchy and very complicated subject with his little brother since – well, since Jessica.

"And maybe I was just feeling it this year." He added.

"Really? Because I half-expected you would spend the day in bed eating an entire box of Lucky Charms." Sam quipped, a shit-eating grin on his face.

Dean rolled his eyes, not one of his finest moments. "Yeah, well as tempting as that was, I felt like something a little more festive was in order."

Sam took a moment but managed half of a smile and a slight nod, as he accepted the reasoning but was clearly not fully convinced. Kid had always been way too smart for his own good.

"I figure Thanksgiving is as good a time as any to pull my head out of my own ass." Dean mentioned.

"Turkey is a powerful motivator, I guess." Sam teased softly.

"As pumped as I am to spend the next month stuffing myself with that giant bird, it's not what got me out of my own head."

Sam's head cocked to the side, the way it always did when he wasn't quite sure of something. "What changed?" He queried.

Dean took a moment, idly running the towel over the edge of the sink, drying away water that wasn't even there, before he looked up, forcing himself to hold that expressive hazel gaze.

"My little brother said he needed me." Dean expressed with absolute sincerity.

He watched as Sam's eyes began to fill, the younger man quickly ducking his head as he swiped at them. Dean had seen the relief and joy and gratitude play out all over his little brother's face before it was hidden behind a curtain of brown hair, and he swallowed the ball of emotion that appeared in his throat in response to such a genuine reaction.

"Stir the gravy before it burns." He instructed, his voice thick and gruff as he worked to swallow down the emotions working to overwhelm him.

Sam nodded, chuckling softly, visibly collecting himself as he began to move the ladle around in the pot.

"Jeez, kid, I give you one job." Dean remarked, maintaining the grumpy attitude, even as beneath the façade contentment was flowing through him at the sight of that dimpled grin.

"My bad, Chef." Sam quipped, his gaze still a little watery but the moisture not doing anything to disguise the joy shining beneath.

"Don't let it happen again." Dean threatened, twisting the towel and snapping it at Sam's legs, laughing as his brother squawked an indignant sound.

Satisfied, Dean returned to the dishes.

One of the last times the two of them had celebrated a proper Thanksgiving Sam had been having visions he had thought were from God telling him a bunch of trash, stupid shit like he had to return to the cage to save the world. Dean had used the holiday as an excuse to spend some time with his kid, and had ensured that Sam understood there was no way in hell that Dean was going to lose him to that fucking cage again – no matter who it would save.

This time around Sam is being tormented with visions of the brothers killing each other over and over again – and just like before, Dean was refusing to allow Sam's visions to come to fruition.

He didn't know what would happen. He didn't know how they would begin to defeat _God_. He didn't know if they stood a single fucking chance.

But what Dean did know - what he was certain of - was that they would stand together.

It had always been Sam and him against the world.

Throwing God into the mix didn't change shit.

The Winchester brothers would still choose each other.

Just as they always had.

"Oh and Sam." Dean called, turning back to face the younger man.

His little brother looked up, gaze curious and steady.

"You being born is what has saved me over and over again, it has never been the reason I've died. Not once. Remember that." Dean declared his voice husky with emotion but still strong with confidence, because each word he had spoken was the absolute truth.

Sam swallowed, his nod shaky, but accepting.

"Okay, De."

**The End**

* * *

Note: It's a surprise Thanksgiving fic! I really hope it was enjoyable. Sacrificed a lot of sleep for this sucker, so I'd love to hear your thoughts! Also trying to raise funds to get a new laptop that doesn't crash every 30 mins if you'd like to buy me a coffee here: ko-fi(dotcom)/samjeller. Thanks for reading! - Sam


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